Page 25 of Flaunt
“Who?” Banks asks.
“Joshua. My old boss.”
He lifts a brow. "The ex-boss who provided you the nice little discount on rent for … a little extra?Thatex-boss?”
He has a good memory. “Yup. The one and only.”
I sit tall, still wrapping my head around the email.He could’ve contacted me. He could’ve had Human Resources contact me. Why be a dick?
“What did he do?” Banks asks carefully.
“I did a bunch of work—almost exclusively, really—for a client called Petterson Label Wines. They throw this gala every year that’s the place to be and everyone clamors for an invite. Apparently,Iwas given an invitation and Joshua told them I didn’t work there anymore and would be unable to attend—even though I deserve to be there.”
Banks sits back, his hands folded in his lap. His face is unreadable. Handsome but unreadable.
“Fuck him,” I mutter, picking my phone up. I type out a succinct, professional response to his assistant, thanking them for the offer and accepting it. Then I shove it in my pocket. “The nerve of that guy.”
“Are you going?” he asks.
“Where?”
He gestures toward my pocket. “To the party or gala or whatever.”
“Yes,I’m going. I worked my ass off on that account. And, besides, I’m unemployed. Maybe I’ll network with someone and get a job offer.”
His lips twitch. “Will theex-bossbe there?”
Crap. I didn’t consider that.“Probably. He goes every year. Only, this year he’ll have his new fiancée with him.”
“You don’t care about that?”
“Nope. Not even a little. It was his parting shot that pissed me off. He told me that I wasn’t wife material. Can you believe that?”
Banks smirks. “Yeah.”
I pick up a pillow and throw it at him. He catches it easily and tucks it beside him in the chair.
“Just take someone with you,” he says. “Make him think that you didn’t lose any sleep over him. That you rebounded the next day. Guys hate it when they think they weren’t memorable.”
Not a bad idea. I whip out my phone once again and check the details of the invitation.You and a plus-one.
An idea percolates in my mind, slowly coalescing into one smooth, solid idea.
“I don’t just need a rebound,” I say, still working through the plan. “I need to make him eat his words—make him think he really screwed up. That he miscalculated.”
“What do you want to do? Get married real quick?” Banks asks, laughing. “A little overkill, don’t you think?”
A slow smile stretches across my face. “Yeah, but a fake fiancé isn’t.”
“A fake fiancé?” Brooke hands me a glass of wine and sits on the loveseat beside Moss. “Who is getting a fake fiancé?”
“Me. Maybe.” I take a sip. “Oh, this is lovely.”
Banks tips back his beer, watching me over the brim.
“Who is going to be your pretend husband?” Brooke asks.
“I don’t know yet. I’m working that out.”
